For the past two weeks room 8.1 has been watching a short film about a girl named Alma and also writing from her perspective. Here is my work from her perspective.
I skip past all the tall apartments. Snot drips down my upper lip. I see the missing children posters but don’t notice it enough to wonder where they went. While skipping I hear my footsteps on the cobblestone road as the wind blows around me. I taste the little snowflakes; not tasting like I thought they would. I was skipping when I came across a black board with a bunch of peoples names on it. Finding a piece of gritty chalk I write my name as well.
After I write my name I hear a squeaky, old, raspy sound of gears turning for the first time in years. I turn around to see what’s happening. A doll, similar to what I look like, is staring back at me. I want it. I run to the door but it is locked. I am angry. I throw a snowball at the door and storm off in a pit of IMMENSE RAGE. Abruptly the door slightly opens making a groaning, grinding, scraping sound.
The door opens even more. I run towards it with joy. Inside I look around at many dolls. Some look weird and old. Some are hideous. Stepping into the old, dusty shop my footsteps crunch echoing at the same time on the hard, dusty floor. I see the doll on a table. I am about to grab it when a doll falls out of nowhere. It’s like it is trying to escape. I put it right side up and it cycles to the door trying to escape. I turn around to get my doll but it has moved to a high shelf. I climb onto a couch, take off my mitten to grab it . I stretch. . .
I stretch and stretch and stretch to grab my doll. I touch it. My doll consumes my soul. My eyes click as I look around the shop. I hear the gears moving again as I see the back of another doll pop up from the floor.
I hope someone can save me.








